The world considered Eugene Lane a very fortunate young man; and if
youth, health, social reputation, a seat in Parliament, a large income,
and finally the promised hand of an acknowledged beauty can make a man
happy, the world was right. It is true that Sir Roderick Ayre had been
heard to pity the poor chap on the ground that his father had begun life
in the workhouse; but everybody knew that Sir Roderick was bound to
exalt the claims of birth, inasmuch as he had to rely solely upon them
for a reputation, and discounted the value of his opinion accordingly.
After all, it was not as if the late Mr. Lane had ended life in the
undesirable shelter in question. On the contrary, his latter days had
been spent in the handsome mansion of Millstead Manor; and, as he lay on
his deathbed, listening to the Rector's gentle homily on the vanity of
riches, his eyes would wander to the window and survey a wide tract of
land that he called his own, and left, together with immense sums of
money, to his son, subject only to a jointure for his wife. It is hard
to blame the tired old man if he felt, even with the homily ringing in
his ears, that he had not played his part in the world badly.

Millstead Manor was indeed the sort of place to raise a doubt as to the
utter vanity of riches. It was situated hard by the little village of
Millstead, that lies some forty miles or so northwest of London, in the
middle of rich country. The neighborhood afforded shooting, fishing, and
hunting, if not the best of their kind, yet good enough to satisfy
reasonable people. The park was large and well wooded; the house had
insisted on remaining picturesque in spite of Mr. Lane's improvements,
and by virtue of an indelible stamp of antiquity had carried its point.
A house that dates from Elizabeth is not to be entirely put to shame by
one or two unblushing French windows and other trifling barbarities of
that description, more especially when it is kept in countenance by a
little church of still greater age, nestling under its wing in a manner